Aisthesis
by Countess Millarca
Summary: Reality can be a cruel mistress, but imagination is a far crueler realm to dwell - and the worst monsters are the chimeras in our mind.
1. Osphresis

**Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha. All credit belongs to Takahashi, Rumiko.**

**Warning: Contains sexual abuse.**

_"You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood."_

Wisps of raven hair billow through his silver tresses – inviting. Bells of light laughter ring in his sensitive ears – tempting. Flecks of sapphire gems shimmer before his captured gaze – luring. Never before has a human being held his interest with such rapture – _never_. He struggles to unveil the shrouded mystery, give reason to unbecoming curiosity, end the wretched obsession. He cannot understand the potent power of this woman; and so – he observes and stalks and waits.

_What are you, onna? Why am I drawn to you? Why does your face cause me unrest? _Countless times he ponders on the implications of this unprecedented occurrence. Yet no answers are found each and every time. There is only unwanted want. Festering. Seething. Devouring.

He can understand honor, pride, duty – always has. They are the values which nurture, sustain, and validate his ageless existence. Intrigue is foreign to him – so is attraction and lust. He cannot find words more suiting to name these strange emotions. Yet even as he recognizes them for what they are, he feels as if they do not belong to _him_. Her velvet lavender scent clings to his skin; but he remembers not when her touch corrupted him. He has never dared taste the forbidden nectar of her hidden gifts before – he is certain. Then, why, why does her essence saturate his blood? _Why_?

**A/N: The quote at the beginning is from ****Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Mosach****.**


	2. Horasis

_"The monster once awakened, may go into hibernation, but he is always lurking."_

Black slit pupils – encased in dark gold – prey upon bare skin and luscious curves. She is no different than any other human female and yet, she _is_. She alone possesses the power to twist his detached reality into a vortex of ravenous hunger. Is it the elegant arch of her neck? The teasing swell of her breasts? The supple curve of her hips? He does not know what beckons his gaze or moves his feet – but he is moving. Closer. Farther.

"Miko." He cannot help but call out to her. Dignity, he realizes, long forgotten but deep rooted – an impulse he cannot ignore. He attempts to mask the rapacious nuance in his voice, dull. Callous. Stolid.

Even after his warning call, she _still_ gives him her nude back. Eyes – the shade of a silver sea – peek underneath thick lashes as her neck turns coyly. A blurred image flickers in his distorted memories; the lovely visage of a female back – _her_ back. Why? How? When?

"Miko." The same word, the same meaning – but _not _the same voice. This utterance is heavy, sensual, carnal. Wanton awareness scintillates in the deep waters of her shadowed gaze when she hears the change. She recognizes him now – her lover.

"Sesshoumaru-sama." Her graceful back arcs as she shifts her body in the way she knows he enjoys – _slow_. Slow, she bares herself to the insatiate lust in his golden depths.

**A/N: The quote at the beginning is from ****Nira/Sussa by Julian Darius****.**


	3. Achoe

"_She had borne so long this cruelty of belonging to him and not being claimed by him."_

Crimson vines weave within liquid gold; salient fangs bleed yielding flesh. He battles down the natural instinct to claim – take and ravage. But there is no need; he has done as much in the past. Yes, he has broken her in legion, jagged pieces – again, and again, and again. Only to make her whole once more; to wed her abused parts as he commands. She has learned her place – beneath him – and she welcomes his touch; craves it yet. Her bowed posture before him, her reined spirit confirms this perverse truth.

He gives a small shake of his head, long silver locks sway, and she understands. She knows to lower her naked body to the misty surface of the smoky waters, plant her palms and knees on the unforgiving rocks underneath. Pleasure bound moans fall from her lips as her back melds against hard, sinuous muscles. He swallows her breathless sounds with a beast like growl – conquers. She is such a delicate creature. Soft. Bendable. Always has been – since the very first time he took her – and always will be.

Time stands quietly still – and she submits. But not he, never he. He is moving within tight walls, he is pounding. Ebony locks trapped between biting claws and moon shaped marks carved upon pale skin – hedonism. Her white skin lures him shamelessly, whispers it cannot remain as is. It is not comely on her for she is most beautiful amidst red.

**A/N: The quote at the beginning is from ****Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence.**


	4. Geusis

_"He broke my heart. You merely broke my life."_

The rousing _sight_ of her perfect skin, tainted in carmine hues, spurs him on a wild hunt. But it is her _smell_ and _taste _as well. Sultriness and wetness is her flesh around his pulsing length; sweetness and intoxication is her blood upon his delving tongue. She mewls – a longing cry of need – when she is denied the wanting pressure of his chiseled chest and the pleasure-pain of his fangs. But the urge of _sight _is too strong, too much to be ignored. He craves to _see – _the shapely line of her spine as she writhes beneath him.

He drags a clawed fingertip across the smooth trail of her tapered bones, takes delight in the shivering spasm that spills within. Slender fingers splay over the curve of her buttocks, sink into the sweltering suppleness of her hip, and he rams against her. And now _sound _joins the sensuous sensations. A luxurious scream escapes her strained throat when he draws back the obsidian ringlets in his clutch – surges forward once more – and skin slaps against skin.

A powerful name thrums amidst guttural echoes of ecstasy._ Sesshoumaru_. His mind takes minute pause even if his body does not. _Sesshoumaru. _He recalls hearing this name before – he is certain. _Sesshoumaru. _But he has _never_ heard it being worshipped in such manner. Pleading. Hallowed. Fanatic.

Sesshoumaru –The Killing Perfection_ – his name_.

**A/N: The quote at the beginning is from ****Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.**


	5. Aphe

_"He was jealous of her future, and she of his past."_

Blood-red tendrils submit to their master's call, unweave their intricate designs. They drain away, painstakingly slow, leaving only sleek gold to dwell in his haunted gaze now – pure light. An ill fallacy the likes of which he has never endured in the past – but he _has_. He cannot fathom the raw, metallic ecstasy coursing through his throbbing veins; he does not want to. The serpentine creature who causes him such pleasure – a human; a priestess; a witch. She twists and snakes and bends to the thrusts of his surging hips; and _still_... Still he beats to her rhymes.

He rears his fluted chin towards the crystalline sheen of the night dome, wild locks mat on his taut skin, rouged eyelids and silvery eyelashes descend. He has no desire to feel any longer. No. He wishes to erase sight; and smell; and taste; and sound; and touch, most of all, _touch_. Euphonious feminine laughter seeps in his muted senses treacherously. Saccharine. Burlesque. Indecent. Such a despicably sweet and wholly desirous sound it is – sentient.

"Where are you, _love_? There? Here? In between? Where are _you_? Where am _I_?" She asks, and laughs, and moves; she never ceases her hypnotic, slithering dance against his palpitating flesh. Dewiness and heat smear over his heaving pelvis as she rides him – as she _always_ has.

**A/N: The quote at the beginning is from ****Delta of Venus ****b****y Anais Nin****.****  
**


	6. Noesis

_"We're all toys, broken and misused and thrown away. We might as well play for a little while."_

The leisure, erotic waves licking at his calves become grazing fabric against his sweaty back. The mesmeric breeze of the night wind turns to suffocating breaths within the narrow room. The plump cheeks yielding to his pounding rhythm metamorphose into spread thighs over his accented hip bones. But the salved lips bearing his slick hardness never change – they are there. Swallowing. Deepening. Binding.

Dark lashes unveil hazel pools of willing anguish and loath passion. The human, the priestess, the witch rises above him – but she is _not_. No, she is none of these things – she never was. And he is not demon, he is not power, he is not beast – he merely wished to be. What is real and what is not – he can tell. Her panting cries of wretched lust, his hollow growls of used abuse – and sinful rapture. They are his why and how and when – and _always_.

The resounding _click _of his white prison barely registers in his jarred mind. She leaves him be – for now. But she will return, yes, she will. And he will be honor and beast in her absence once more – always.

**A/N:****The quote at the beginning is from ****Drowning Ophelia by Eva Natsumi.  
**


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